Memories of my days in Saigon
By G.K. Sharma

MY first and lasting impression of Saigon is soaked with memories of the stunning beauty of Vietnamese girls. Their butter-honey-roses complexion always made them look radiant. Though very slim and delicate they were vivacious — full of passion and energy. These button-nosed beauties were natural fairies of special oriental splendour. Often seen in attractive, flowing ao dai gowns — long Vietnamese tunic with slit-panels, they wore sleek conical straw hats as headgear!

Their silky, shining black hair was invariably longer than their own height. And sometimes, when their bun of hair (coiffeuring their abundant crowning glory) fell and broke loose, it touched the floor and swept your heart alongwith.

My second impression was that I had landed in Megh Desh — rain country. Monsoon rain was by pounding Saigon with fiendish ferocity. Nothing of the green vista around was visible on my maiden journey from Tan Som Nhut airport to the city. Historian Toynbee was right: "Vietnam has two seasons: rainy and more rainy."

My encounter with two Comfort Women was memorable on a Bhambiri — small motorbike, right on my first night in Saigon. While we (I and a friend) were leisurely travelling in sicklo (auto cycle rickshaw) enjoying the sounds, smells and sights of the town, the two powdered, thickly painted ladies delicately propositioned — while motoring sideways. One spoke in local lingo: di dichoi; totlam cong-hai (Let us go for fun)! (Me Beautiful Sweetheart!) When ignored once too often, the other lady whistled, gestured — rather shouted — in English: ‘Sir, Sir, I give you massage, very good massage; both of us were relatively young (in our mid 20’s) and coy. We rushed for our lives. I locked himself in the hotel room reciting Hanuman Chalisa to ward off the evil ( and its effect). And took a vow to protect myself from the onslaughts on my virginity. After all, I was a mere vessel of emotion —untinctured by experience... (whether I succeeded in maintaining Bramcharya in turbulent times or not....I leave it for you to guess, with ‘no comments’ from my side.

I reported for duty at the International Control Commission Headquarters. And lived for three years in Saigon — then the bastion of South Vietnam. Everyday, I travelled in a white jeep with a white flag fluttering on a rod fixed on the right, with the words "I.C.C." inscribed from top to bottom. The Commission’s sleek white-coloured transport (indicative of peace-keeping role of its personnel) took me through the tranquil, tree-lined streets of Saigon. I enjoyed the exquisite panorama of natural beauty.

The National Assembly was located at the centre of the square opposite Hotel Continental where I was lodged. The President’s Palace — the ornate yellow building behind high, wroght-iron gates was at a stone’s throw. The famous Rue Catinat (Tu Do Street) full of bars or dance halls — the hub of activity of American GI’s — passed under the balcony of my hotel room (no 22) from where Rex, the hotel that was the American Bachelors’ officers quarters, was also visible.

In short, I was at the centre of Saigon — then universally known as the Paris of the Orient. I could watch the crucial tidal highs in the Indo-China War at the closest range.

Teething pains of war had started when I arrived (May ‘61). Diplomatic euphoria was over and so was the period of relative calm and tranquility. The much trumpeted scheme of protected ‘strategic hamlets’ — a political camouflage for keeping village folks away from joining Vietcong ‘hordes’ — was blown to pieces. Saigon had become a child of chaos and war.

Then, every inch of Vietnamese territory was riddled with bullets by B-52 bombers and the American Hellish Warmachine. The USA had started spending countless millions of dollars on defoliating the countryside, incinerating the peasantry with Napalm and in the words of General Curtis "bombing ‘em back into the stone age." The Vietnamese were a tortured and divided people. Still, there could be no containment of rebellion widely and vastly spread in rice fields of Mekong delta, the Central Highlands or South China Sea. Volcanic eruptions had taken place. Rebellious Vietnamese pilots bombed the Presidential palace in Saigon in an act of apocalyptic vengeance. Thank Heavens, the leaders escaped this time with just a brush with death.

But, the Dance of Death had commenced. Buddhist monks restored to acts of self-immolation by burning. The Dragon Lady (Madame Nhu, sister-in-law of President Ngo) heartless comments that this was ‘bar-be-que, performed with paraffin imported under American Aid’ was denounced by the world. Finally, a ‘Coup d’ etat’ of General ‘Big’ Minh had done President Ngo Dinh Diem to death in November ‘63 and the ‘Nhu Dynasty’ was finished. (A friend possesses till today a (dead) ‘soldier’s hat’ (as a prize), that was sneaked away from self-shattered Gialong presidential palace — the scene of the coup.

There was no government beyond a 15-mile radius of Saigon. This had brought a sea-change in the landscape. The sky was dotted with helicopters even during the day time.

War had taken a toll of us also. Youth had drifted its course from Circle Sportif (a local Gymkhana) Club, to the battle of the bottle. Newly acquired love of active sports — tennis, fencing and swimming had to be sacrificed. One could not advance to the green grass turf in Golf; but got confined to 18-hole clay course by Mekong river front as a pre-drink ritual. Pubs had replaced clubs. Au Baccaurat, Toi et Moi (You and me), La Cigalle, et all, became our rendezous.

Heady days of whisky produced our own heros. Particularly, sauntering, "beered-up" threesomes. One such hero — as soon as his moustache was moistened with whisky — right after his first peg, like a proverbial rat would jump up and dare ask "Where is the cat?" (Aimed at his boss in office who always gave him a rough time). Another hero would turn into a Leaning Tower of Pisa with his neck perennially turned sideways, after two or three pegs. But the real hero was the one with the unattainable motto.

Ya mein bottle de dhidh wich wad wajan

Ya bottle mere dhidh wich wad waje

(either I enter the bottle’s belly or the bottle enters into mine).

Not merely to ‘unwind’ himself, but this hero opted for solid, ‘binge’ drinking. If you failed to give him full company, he would be heard singing Dost Dost Na Raha. And finally his swan song: Meri Jawani guzri is Mehkhane mein.

Two other jokes (facts) were also product of war theatre of Saigon. Learning French was a priority with young boys in ICC because French was still widely spoken by the majority. When movements outside got restricted, people were advised to carry on learning the language through a Sleeping dictionary (i.e., taking Vietnamese girls as all-purpose partners...most of them knew French better than the French). A colleague was asked whether he would like to enjoy an "American girl". Being curious, he asked: "How was that possible?" American girls available in Vietnam war theatre! The interlocutor pointed to a young teen-aged boy in the corner who was giving smiles and ogling with Kohl-lined eyes. Of course, the commodity was being floated for special taste of some American GIs (gays).

Two interludes in this war drama have left an indelible mark on me.

One was a visit to Hanoi, where I flew in ICC aeroplane on duty-cum-holiday. While Saigon was pulsating with GIs enjoying hilarious evenings and disco dancing in pubs and clubs, on "33" local beer or exotic drinks, dining on frogs’ legs and crabs in Floating or Peacock restaurants, Hanoi presented a complete contrast. Hanoi was the nucleus of the great battle that North Vietnam was constantly fighting against the South supported by the mighty American machine. Though nearly devoid of cars and neon lights, Hanoi looked ancient and preserved a network of tree-lined wide streets, with yellow stucco villas (left by the French settlers).

Ho Chi Minh moved with ease amongst his people in a poor peasants’ simple outfit of black cotton tunic and pyjamas. Austerity was greatly welcomed in North Vietnam. And the leader Ho Chi Minh followed austere living. He had passed a decree that every Vietnamese would be given six metres of cloth annually. Uncle Ho scrupulously followed this state dictum, even if he had to use patches on his clothes. People followed his example. Uncle Ho lived in an ordinary cottage attached to the Presidential Palace. Many foreigners and passersby had a glimpse of Uncle Ho, dressed in peasant’s clothes, tending a buffalo near his cottage. I was a lucky witness to this scene. Ho used the Presidential Palace only for ceremonial occasions. Vietnamese struggle for freedom was also constantly on the upswing by another Hero General Giap who had humbled the French (in the Diem Bien Phu battle) despite their numerical and technical superiority.

Mot-hai-ba-bon(one-two-three-four) was heard, at regular intervals on public loudspeakers. This was a clarion-call for exercise. And all Vietnamese from 8 to 80 would walk on the streets of Hanoi to participate in this compulsory military exercise which made their spinal columns strong and steeled their will. "Determined to fight and win" was the banner and battle cry of Vietminh — the army of the North. Most advanced technology and large force of Americans could not stand up to a few thousand guerrillas in black pyjamas, who were fired with the spirit of freedom for their motherland. (Finally, years later they won the war... the American Ambassador had to run (in his under garments) for his life, lifted in a helicopter and escorted to a waiting aircraft.)

Another memorable interlude is my happy encounter with Ganga-Jamna. They were twin sisters born of a Vietnamese mother and a South Indian father — born almost in similar circumstances as Charles Sobhraj. Unlike Sobhraj who had gained ‘gang-lord’ notoriety, Ganga-Jamna were adorable, ordinary, decent, lovely girls. We had met in a concert of Vietnamese music where My Lee (a local Lata Mangeshar) was pouring her heart out in her doleful, romantic songs. We exchanged pleasantries and a bonhomie was born. We fell for each other’s friendship. We were searching for kindred and caring souls. I would spend hours and full evenings in their house. (Their father had died their mother was full of maternal love). And they must have spent umpteen memorable times with me in my hotel over innocuous tete-a-tete. We were young in early 20’s and our chit-chat or pyaar varta had limitless horizons. We talked of cabbages and kings and time flew on the wings of eternity. When wartimes were the hottest, our friendship was the only solace.

War was causing grief, melancholy; seeing each other and being together ‘for a while’ was like reviving life in all its glory — away from doleful, war. I must share that we were in the prime of youth but never crossed the Lakshman rekha. Two reasons there were for this. One, we were basically shy and apprehensive. This, I know, for certain would not be the same in modern changed times. Another reason is that the twinsome never came as "either"; but always together. The special innocent kinship (binding and deep — because of their Indian background) with Ganga-Jamna continued till my departure.

In January, 1964, I sailed back home by SS Laos. When the boat drifted down-river from Saigon, everything faded into dusk (even the tall, twin spires of the Cathedral so prominent a little while ago)... the memories and mementoes flashed back in quick succession.

The profiles of Ganga-Jamna and sweet Vietnamese girls intermingled; caught in that sensual music and set upon a golden bough, I was humming the haunting tune of My Lee:

Amm Oai... Nieu Khim Thi Sao!

(Darling, you are a loveable 420)!

 
Projects get short shrift
Fauji beat
By Pritam Bhullar

ADDRESSING a press conference before the Navy Day, which fell on December 4, Chief of the Naval Staff Admiral Vishnu Bhagwat said that despite the proposal for an indigenous aircraft carrier having been cleared by the Defence Minister George Fernandes in June for the second time, it had still not gone before the Cabinet. He also said that the proposal to buy the Russian aircraft carrier "Admiral Gorshkov" was also under consideration.

Ironically, it is very rare in the Indian set-up that a defence project would get through. As for this project, it was in the middle of 1995 that the then Prime Minister P.V. Narasimha Rao, who was also holding the Defence portfolio, said that because of the resource crunch, "the Navy could either have an academy or acquire an aircraft carrier". That we have neither of them today should surprise no one because defence projects are the last priority in this country.

Our naval technical evaluation team went to Russia in August 1995 to examine aircraft carrier "Admiral Gon-shkov" to replace INS Vikrant, which was laid to rest more than two years ago. After the visit, the proposal to buy the former had reached an advanced stage. But the government is still dragging its feet on this project.

Incidentally, all the naval chiefs have been pressing for the construction of two indigenous carriers; the designs for which were finalised several years ago. But the powers that be continue to pooh-pooh this proposal.

Pension after 47 years

Barber Chokhe Lal of 3 Gwalior Infantry who was retrenched in 1951, when the state forces were merged into the Indian Army, is not the only one who, due to the apathy of military authorities went without pension for 47 years. Many personnel below officer rank (PBOR), especially jawans and widows of deceased soldiers do not get their rightful pensionary benefits because of the callousness of the sanctioning authorities on the one hand and the former’s ignorance of rules on the other hand.

The tale of woe of Chokhe Lal, briefly, runs like this. While all others of his category got their pension, his case was left out. On coming to know from some of his colleagues in 1976 that he was entitled to pension, he approached the District Soldiers’ Welfare Officer Gwalior and the Kumaon Regimental Centre Ranikhet but they refused to take up his case.

It was in September 1994 that he approached Col (retd) U.S. Chauhan, President Ex-servicemen League Gwalior with all the documents. Col Chauhan had to fight a long battle on his case with all concerned. Not only that, he personally approached the Adjutant General Army Headquarters and the former as well as the present Army Chief Generals Shanker Roy Choudhary and V.P. Malik respectively. After this herculean effort, Government orders sanctioning Chokhe Lal’s pension were received on August 31, 1998. Col Chauhan who deserves all praise has been congratulated by the Indian Ex-servicemen Leage, New Delhi.

You find very few officers like Col Chauhan these days who help deserving jawans and widows. No wonder then that the retired JCOs and other ranks often say: "We fought and won battles for them while in service. But now they consider us outcastes and don’t even look at us; leave alone trying to help us".

An image-building exercise

Since service in the Army has become unattractive, it does not find many takers. This has resulted in the service remaining short of manpower, especially in the middle rank officers to the tune of over 13,000. Efforts made over the past few years to lure the youth to this service have not borne fruit. Now a new venture to foster interaction between officers and students has been launched by the Army Headquarters.

According to a document called "Commercial Public Relations (CPR) for the Army" issued by the Army Training Command (ARTRAC) in the middle of 1996, the services of the electronic media were hired to give a shine to the fading image of the Army. Despite having wasted lakhs of rupees on this exercise, no visible benefit flowed from it.

The Army Headquarters have now issued a directive to all Commands to organise regular meets between selected officers and students in schools and colleges to motivate the youth to opt for the Army. A panel of "handpicked" officers has to be formed by various formations, according to this directive, which will include women officers for girls’ colleges and schools.

No doubt, because of the personal contact, this exercise will produce better results than the soap operas. But this too will not cut much ice. For, the Army can become attractive only if its lost "izzat" is restored to it. Regrettably, one does not see any effort being made in this direction so far.